


Marked

by greenmamba5



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Credence Barebone Deserves Better, Crewt - Freeform, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Newt Doesn't understand Why His Soulmate Hurts So Much, Physical Abuse, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Your Soulmate Feels What You Feel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-09-22 15:30:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9614237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenmamba5/pseuds/greenmamba5
Summary: Wizards and witches are born with marks somewhere on their bodies or the marks appear when their soulmate is born. Non-magical people can, in rare cases, develop the markings, but they don’t appear until later in life, once they have already met their soulmate. The bond of soulmates is strong and forms a force-feedback loop between the two, allowing them to share experiences.Newt can't understand why his soulmate just keeps hurting and Credence wishes the devil would leave him alone.





	1. Burned

Newt was age six when his mark appeared, large and bold across his collarbone. The vine-like pattern of it crept up his right shoulder and clung downwards to his breast. It tingled under his shirt and he scratched at it ferociously until his mother took notice and ceased his picking.

“It itches, Mum,” he insisted. “What is it?”

“Newton, darling, your soulmate’s been born,” she said excitedly. Theseus had gotten his mark when he was age three. It looked a bit like a spider and Newt always thought it was neat. His was flowery, though, and he didn’t know what to make of it when he finally got to study it in the mirror.

Plus, his Mum began warning him to tread cautiously, that his partner, wherever they were in the grand, wide world, could feel what he felt. The magnitude of that could not be fully appreciated by a child, normally, but Newt always had a tendency to hyper focus on things. 

He built an attachment to the idea of his soulmate, wondering what they might be like. If he scraped a knee or stubbed a thumb, he fretted over the small pains, apologizing under his breath to a person who obviously couldn’t hear him. When the bumps and bruises were occasionally reversed, he’d hold the ache close, bringing it to his lips if possible to kiss it better, hoping the gesture would translate through his bond.

\--------

Credence no longer remembered what the mark looked like. He knew that it had been beautiful. He knew that it had covered the back of his left hand, playing delicately over the tendons and webbing between his knuckles. 

He knew that Ma had hated it, that it marked him as the bastard son of a witch. It had accentuated that his dominant hand was an affront to all things moral and good. He remembered the switch across his skin, tearing into the mark, when he took a pencil into that hand. He remembered Ma all but crippling his fingers so he’d be forced to write with his other hand, hard as it was. 

He remembered tucking his hand out of sight whenever Ma was near, trying to hide his mark, trying to protect it before she defaced it more. He remembered the night he made her angry, though he didn’t remember his offense. He remembered the iron, smoldering hot, and the words, pleading for forgiveness, catching in his throat as she burned his mark away.

He no longer remembered the details of it, but he still mourned it.

\-----

Newt’s left hand never worked quite right after all the phantom abuse it suffered. He felt immense pity for his poor soulmate, having first had their fingers smashed and then getting a nasty burn. He often wondered, feeling hot streaks cutting across his arms, if perhaps his soulmate was an animal enthusiast as he was. Newt regularly suffered from cuts and scratches from his little pets and from his Mum’s hippogriffs. He had several scars cutting across his own arms, in fact.

Aside from the ordeal with his left hand, Newt had never received a terribly painful feedback and for that he was grateful. He also hadn’t sent anything too traumatic to his soulmate. At the start of his fourth year, though, he took a tumble from a broom—Merlin, he hated flying non-sentient objects, anyway—and snapped clean through the radius and ulna of his right arm. He was quick to find a healer, begging to have the bone repaired. His soulmate, after all, already had a handicap in their left hand, and he worried that they’d be terribly put out with the opposite arm out of commission. 

With it freshly healed, Newt sat awake that night, breathing soothingly over the top of his right hand. “I’m so, so sorry. I’ll be more careful next time.”

He was awakened by searing lines slicing into his palms. Newt bolted upright in bed, choking down a cry so as not to wake his bunkmates. 

It was then, at age fourteen, Newt realized that something was very wrong.


	2. Connected

Though his expulsion hadn’t been enforced, Newt was put under careful watch after the incident with Leta’s Jarvey—which had been utterly blown out-of-proportion, if Newt had any say of it. Jarvey bites weren’t even venomous and the girl who’d gotten the wrong end of its teeth didn’t even need a healer after the event!

Leta became a good friend, though, seemingly very grateful that Newt had taken the fall for her. Leta was a Slytherin, a Pureblood, and an all-around very clever witch. Her mark was a spiral design that swept across her left thigh. Newt spotted it once when they were harvesting gillyweed for Herbology in fifth year. She waded out into the swampy muck and hiked her robes up enough to reveal it.

She caught Newt’s eye and teased, “It isn’t a match to you, Newton.”

“How d’you know?” he snapped back in embarrassment.

“I’m older than you and I’ve had it since birth,” she reasoned. She flapped the edge of her robe suggestively. “It’s pretty, though, isn’t it? I rather like it.”

Newt’s hand hovered over his shoulder in reverence. “I’m rather fond of mine, too.”

“Oh, is it on your chest there?” Leta asked. “Let me see!” Newt undid his top two buttons and pulled his shirt to the side. Leta smiled—and, oh, did she have a pretty smile. “Yours is quite lovely.”

\------

Credence wished the devil would leave him alone.

He’d learned to ignore the ghosts of pain that sometimes streaked across his body, the aches and pains that came seemingly from nowhere. The few times that the sensations were more than an inconvenience, Ma had honed in on it instantly, asking why he was complaining. He could usually make up a story about tripping and banging himself up, but some days she would accuse him of lying and strike the belt down on his palms.

Eventually, she made a connection, figured out that he was, in fact, feeling something even without a stimulus. It was then that she insisted the devil was trying to carve out a hollow inside his to take up residence. As ridiculous as it sounded, Credence had no evidence to argue against the idea. Ma gained the habit of smacking him if she ever got the notion that he was feeling the unseen. She didn’t always guess the correct time and would sometimes lash him for no reason.

Other times, Credence was torn against his hate for the devil’s touch.

On icy days, his battered left hand would clench into a painful fist, the burn-scarred skin not even having the give to stretch over his knuckles appropriately. His joints ached against the cold and it was rare that Ma ever allowed him gloves. But, on those days, the devil took pity. The hurt would become heated and ease suddenly, as though they were being dipped in a warm bath. The chill that crept through his body would wane as the warmth spread invisibly over him like a blanket. 

He wished the devil would leave him alone, would stop tempting him with kindness. 

\-------

Newt found himself constantly casting warming spells over his hands during certain times out of the year. His soulmate lived in a place with horrid winters and Newt’s hands would seize up sympathetically when the cold would creep into their fingers.

Leta seemed ever-bewildered by Newt’s doting. “Why don’t they just find a healer if their hands hurt that bad?”

“I doubt they have a choice,” Newt said sadly. “I get some nasty feedback from them. Cuts and bruises, awful chills, hunger pangs, even. They’re hurting terribly.”

“You should just have them cut off, then,” Leta scoffed.

Newt balked at the idea. There were ways to sever the bonds with one’s soulmate, in the event that such an extreme was ever needed. He’d heard of people who were bonded to werewolves doing it sometimes, to avoid the trauma of experiencing a transformation alongside their soulmate—it was usually at the afflicted partner’s suggestion. Some people whose partners were terminally ill also used it. Also, in the rare cases of people who were bonded to a soulmate decades their junior, a severing was considered the proper way to handle the otherwise very socially stigmatized bond.

Newt saw no reason to entertain the idea, though. His soulmate was six years younger, but the age gap wasn’t entirely unfeasible, and the pain Newt felt was nothing compared to the longing he had to just find his soulmate and steal them away from whatever was hurting them.

He said dangerously, “If you care about me at all, please don’t ever suggest that again.”

\--------

If Credence didn’t know better, he’d think the devil was coddling him.

When he slept, he could feel the press of a hand against his stomach and one at his shoulder, exerting a confident pressure. The touch on his shoulder was a constant sensation, really, an affirmation that the devil was always there, always waiting just below the surface. Years of familiarity with the contact lowered Credence’s guard to it until he was unconsciously returning the gesture, his left hand awkwardly hovering over the warmth on his right shoulder. 

\-------

Newt was a year from leaving Hogwarts when Leta suggested they should date. He outright sputtered at her in disbelief. 

“You know your person is a good piece away from being mature enough for you,” she argued. “Even if you did find them, it’d be ages before you could start with them.”

There were laws in place, in fact, to protect minors from the implications of a bond with too wide an age gap. In the event that an adult was introduced to a soulmate who was still a minor, it had to be reported to the Ministry and the pair would undergo a mandatory separation until such a time that the minor reached seventeen years of age.

So, Leta was at least right in saying that his life would be delayed. He’d be twenty-three at the youngest before he could move along with his soulmate. But, he was fully prepared to wait however long it took. In fact, he still desperately hoped to find them as soon as possible, knowing that a Ministry-sanctioned shelter would be worlds better than where they were living now.

“And what of yours?” Newt scoffed. “Don’t tell me you’ve given up the search.”

“He’s having sex without me,” she snapped. She was insistent that her soulmate was male, and she had cited the feeling of him masturbating as her primary reason for believing so. There was a feedback of pleasure, she’d explained, but it was also really foreign to her. “I don’t see any reason to hold back.”

“Since when?” Newt gasped.

“For a while now,” she replied simply. “We’ve played back and forth through the feedback loop, but he must be getting impatient.”

“So, what then?” Newt asked. “You’re planning to hop round until you find him?”

“Maybe,” she said. “It’d serve him right, don’t you think?”

She leaned in close, smelling warm and drunk off the Firewhiskey she’d snuck from her parents’ supply. Newt gently budged her back. “I don’t want to be any part of that, Leta. We’re friends.”

“We could be really good friends, Newton,” she teased.

“Absolutely not,” he snapped. “I’m not subjecting mine to anything like that until they’re well old enough.”

There were laws to keep the young safe from direct contact, but indirect contact through the feedback loop was a gray area that most wizards and witches attempted at their own discretion. Basic sexual education warned of the things that could be felt through the bond and the common consensus was that testing the waters was a fairly natural part of maturing.

Newt always felt that his soulmate was fragile, though, and that pushing any sort of contact other than gentle, comforting touches, would be terribly traumatic for them. He compiled his own rules regarding his bond: 

No letting others close romantically. As attractive as the idea of dating and exploring might seem—and Newt had been given plenty of opportunities—it simply came down to a stubborn affection for his soulmate. Reaching out to anyone else would be admitting defeat.

No consumption of substances that could inebriate him until such a time that his soulmate was of age, unless, of course, they partook of such substances first. That seemed self-explanatory. 

No masturbating unless his soulmate did first. Newt was the older of the pair and it was his responsibility to protect his soulmate from learning things before the acceptable time. And honestly, Newt couldn’t miss something he’d never felt, so it was really a non-issue.

Touch the mark as often and as lovingly as possible. The gesture had been an unintended connection between him and his soulmate. But, they often placed a hand on the shoulder, in return, sending Newt a positive feedback. 

Leta was never a fan of his rules, thinking them a bit extreme. But then, she wasn’t the one attached to him so she had no authority to speak.

\------------

The war was a brutal time for Newt. He was one of the few wizards able to steer the Ironbellies, and so he became invaluable. At the same time, he gained the creatures’ respect by withstanding their flames, standing strong and unmoving as fire licked his skin and scorched the hair from his arms. He understood the necessity of his presence, but as he laid in his bunk, applying ointments to the burns, he pitied his poor soulmate for their connection. He often fell asleep with his aching left hand drawn in close, kissing his knuckles to send reassurance through their bond. 

Sometimes, he’d even feel a soft press returned to him. On those occasions, he imagined them whispering, “I understand. I know. It’s okay.”

\--------

Credence’s lungs felt singed for nearly two years, and he felt sure as anything that it was Hellfire taking up residence inside him. Around the time that the burning stopped, the last of the soldiers were returning from war, battered and broken and haunted. Often, his Ma muttered under her breath that he should’ve been drafted, that maybe then he would appreciate the safety of the church that he had always taken for granted.

He wouldn’t have come back alive, though, and he knew it, and he knew that she probably knew it, too. It started the endless spiral of self-loathing over again. He knew his Ma hated him. He once thought that she cared, that she did what she did to cleanse his filthy soul, but the older he grew, the more he realized that he was just the outlet for her anger.

He was wicked, yes. He sought the devil’s touch, sure. But, his Ma was at least as vile as him. 

He stayed because Modesty had been adopted into the church and she had a mark, too. He stayed because when the mark, a small zigzagging design, had been melted into a warped patch of hurt on her stomach, he was the only one who understood what she grieved. He stayed because she, too, felt the devil’s touch, and someone had to teach her that Ma was lying, that the touch was nothing to be afraid of.


	3. Touched

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's getting hot in here...

Modesty was, fortunately, very good at pretending. She pretended to be grateful for the loss of her mark, pretended to hate magic, pretended that she didn’t feel the devil’s touch. She stared knowingly over the dinner table at Credence, a small smile playing over her lips. 

“What is it, Modesty?” their Ma asked. 

“Nothing, Ma,” she said innocently. “Just thinkin’ of the new song you taught me.”

Later, when their Ma had long since gone to bed, Modesty crept into Credence’s tiny room in the attic, as she often did. He didn’t sleep much, and he heard her coming before her shadow crossed his door. During these middle-of-the-night meetings, she would talk to him while he brushed and redid the plait in her hair, much as the useless fingers on his left hand protested.

“I was being tickled,” she said. “At dinner. I almost laughed, too.”

“It’s good that you didn’t,” Credence warned. He untangled her current braid and swept her hair flat down her back. 

His knuckled brushed the nape of her neck and she observed, “Your hands’re really warm. How’d they get like that?” She turned and pressed her cold fingertips to his cheek to make her point.

“Does the devil not warm your hands when they’re cold?” Credence asked quietly.

“No,” she pouted. “If anything, he makes mine colder.” Credence had no explanation and Modesty continued, “Credence, I don’t think my devil and your devil are the same.”

“It has to be the same, Moddy,” he argued. “There’s only one devil.”

“Yeah, I know,” she huffed, “but mine pokes at me and pinches my arm like he’s trying to get me in trouble. You said yours is nice, right?”

“It hurts me sometimes, too,” Credence said. “It broke my arm once, I think. My right arm. Ma said it was trying to make me use my left hand so I could learn to curse people.” He recalled the event, how his Ma had ripped his palms open with the belt—a warning to his devil that she knew what trickery it was up to. “It healed my arm right after, though, so I don’t think it really means to hurt.”

“My devil’s different,” Modesty insisted. 

Credence finished her braid and shooed her off his bed. “Go on to sleep, Moddy. Ma will wonder why you’re tired in the morning.”

She reluctantly complied and slipped down the ladder from the attic. 

\-------

Returning home was always awkward for Newt. His parents were always fretting over what he planned to do with himself while at the same time comparing him to his prodigal brother. With the war over, they had insisted both Newt and Theseus stay for a holiday, get their bearings. Theseus was eager for the break, but Newt would have preferred to wander off into the wilderness for a while. 

Theseus had fought on the front lines, using his spells and wits to outmaneuver the enemy. He’d come out of the conflict labeled a war hero. Newt, on the other hand, had been relegated to the dragon pens. It suited him well enough, until his beasts were actually utilized in combat. Animals were more disposable than humans and his commanding officers were mercilessly thoughtless when they assigned the dragons. Newt lost more dragons than he’d care to remember, and the experience had burned him to the callousness of humans.

Not to mention Theseus had a million and one questions about the search for his soulmate.

“What have you figured out, Newie?” Theseus asked. “You have to have picked up some hints.”

“They live somewhere with cold winters,” Newt said dully. 

“Them and half the bloody world,” his brother scoffed. “Is it a woman or a man?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“They’d be what, seventeen now?”

“Sixteen,” Newt corrected. “Just barely.”

“And do you have any obnoxious stomach cramps part-way into a month or no?” Theseus asked.

Newt sighed, “Well, no.”

“A man, then,” Theseus insisted. “Lucky bastard. Talk about a miserable feedback, that.”

There were several problematic bits that Newt didn’t have the energy to discuss. Firstly, menstruation didn’t define a woman and, though it was uncommon for a person’s identity to develop in opposition to their physical form, Newt wasn’t about to disqualify it as a possibility. Secondly, he didn’t dare tell Theseus the constant abuse that his soulmate suffered, lest the oaf open his mouth to their parents. Newt had no doubt that his Mum would insist on a severance if she knew the extent of the pain. As it was, Newt had to really work at making his left hand appear healthy so as not to raise suspicion, even though his fingers fought to curl into a half-fist. 

“Sixteen, though,” Theseus hummed. “He’ll be coming to that age soon, if he hasn’t already.” He waggled his brows suggestively and Newt didn’t bat an eye, not finding it amusing in the least.

“They haven’t,” Newt deadpanned. 

“And you?” Newt shot his brother a look that could kill and he laughed, “Right, right, forget I asked.”

\-----

The commission from Augustus Worme came as a pleasant surprise to Newt. The man was interested in learning more about all manner of magical beasts and was willing to front Newt a stipend to go research and chronicle his findings. Against the wishes of his family, he set out with no planned itinerary and few resources.

\-------

Some of the street boys were talking about vulgar things, loud enough that Credence could hear it where he stood at the corner, handing out leaflets. Though those boys were without proper shelter, Credence couldn’t help but envy their freedom to live their meager lives as they pleased. 

One boy spoke of bedding a lady—for money, he said. Another called his bluff, saying that no woman would pay to sleep with him. The first boy eventually admitted shamefully that he hadn’t actually been with the woman, but he’d thought about her plenty.

The conversation piqued Credence’s interest, anyway. Much as he wished he could not think on the subject, the seed of curiosity was planted in his mind.

\----

Newt would be eternally grateful that he was alone, holed up in his campsite in New Zealand where he was studying kelpies, when his soulmate finally made the first move. It was muggy and he wore loose clothes and he was reclined back taking notes when he felt it—the tentative, testing graze that brought him immediately to full attention. It came as such a shock that a full-body shake vibrated through him and his tossed his field book aside.

He’d expected it to feel nice, but, bugger, he hadn’t hoped for anything quite like what he was experiencing.

Newt’s head snapped back as he felt a hot force gripping, groping, twisting invisibly over him. The motion was sloppy and unpracticed, but, then, Newt couldn’t fault them for that. It’s not like he was any more experienced. The sensation was teasing him into tizzy and he decided that his condition had been met. He hadn’t started it. He’d waited. He thought, playfully, that a little nudge back couldn’t hurt.

\-------

Credence doubled over when the caress slipped in over his own hand. There was a motion working at a different pace, accenting that it was not, in fact, a feeling caused directly by his movement. He wanted to curse. He feared that caving in to vulgarity would attract his invisible devil, but he’d just wanted to feel—just once. His hand stilled on his erection and the ghost sensation slowed to a stop. 

Credence panted against his pillow, trying to decide his next move. He was sure that acting out his sin this way would only solidify his reservation in Hell, but, sweet merciful angels, it felt incredible. 

He knew the devil would tempt him with gentle touches, would try to sway him to give into his carnal desires, but… If the only things waiting for him in the Kingdom of Heaven were lashes from the belt and reprimands for all the supposed atrocities he’d committed in his life, he saw no difference in that and eternal damnation. At least Hell was giving him a taste of pleasure before plunging him into an infinity of misery.

He returned to pumping his hand, sighing when the phantom touch began again. He rocked into it, pleading and whimpering, and didn’t even bother begging for forgiveness as it brought him to blissful completion.


	4. Slashed

Credence was, admittedly, becoming too intimately familiar with his devil. 

He had grown tall and gangly with age, much taller than his Ma, which she seemed to despise. He was beaten into the habit of shrinking as much as possible when she was around, keeping his shoulders tucked and his head bowed. When he’d been bad, Ma would often climb up the stairs and peer down at him from the height, extending her hand to take his belt. 

He took a sick comfort in the times he was beaten, though, because his devil often touched his shoulder reassuringly through it. Once the lashings were delivered and Ma had ordered him to his room in the attic, Credence would deliberate over the marks on his hands, nearly crying as he felt a soft press like pursed lips haunting his fingertips.

Credence felt he needed to pay respects to his devil for its comforting gestures and he imagined that a further descent into sin was the best tribute he could offer. When the church quieted and he was sure Modesty wouldn’t be visiting him, he would gently rub at himself through the threadbare material of his pajamas. Some nights, his devil would respond, rewarding his offering with a returned touch. Other times, it was just him in the cold quiet of his bed, rutting his hand until his whole body shook and he silenced himself through the wave of pleasure. Either way, he felt sure that his devil was aware of his dedication, watching approvingly even if it wasn’t interacting.

\--------

It was difficult, not responding to his soulmate’s touch, but Newt had business to attend to and creatures to study. He learned quickly how to set aside certain feelings emanating from the feedback loop so as not to become totally distracted. 

Things were much easier when he traveled into a time zone that paralleled his soulmate’s. Newt assumed that they were reserving intimate gestures for nighttime and each encounter happened around the same time of the day. He, unfortunately, couldn’t pinpoint a location even with that schedule in mind—it was simply impossible to triangulate a place that way. But, Newt did try his best to restrict his travels to areas that were conveniently timed away from his soulmate. 

His heart hurt as he noticed certain patterns throbbing out through the feedback loop. Pain slicing into his hands would be followed by several deliberate hours without contact and the eventual touch that would set fire loose in his belly. He imagined whatever was causing his soulmate pain was close, too close to escape or fight back against, and that the intimate caresses were the nearest thing to comfort that they could find. 

So, when he felt the white-hot cuts on his palms, Newt pressed a hand firmly against his mark, trying to distract. And, when the hours passed and his soulmate reached out to him, he tried to respond accordingly. Newt spent many nights, many early mornings, many afternoons in the field cut frantically short, holed up in a tent or bunk or, most recently, a suitcase that he’d enchanted with an expansion charm to accommodate a room. He touched and petted, gliding his hands over himself and pulling pleasure from his soulmate. 

Some encounters were entirely mutual, both him and his soulmate touching in unison, compounding the feeling of it and bringing themselves to quick climaxes. Other times, his soulmate would probe momentarily and cease as soon as Newt started. 

The first few times that this occurred, Newt had thought his soulmate might be backing away in reluctance and so Newt had immediately stopped. A frantic touch had echoed through to him, though, prompting him to start again. He had continued his ministrations tentatively and through trial and error discovered that it was his soulmate’s way of saying they simply wanted him to touch while they just experienced it.

Sometimes, Newt, too, felt like just riding the high of it. When his soulmate prompted with a teasing touch, Newt would lay back, place a reassuring hand on his shoulder or against his thigh, and they would take the lead entirely. 

He ended every encounter by rubbing up his stomach and arms, the closet thing to a cuddle he could manage without his soulmate physically with him. Sometimes the touch would be mirrored, but the times that it wasn't, Newt imagined his soulmate had fallen into a hopefully restful sleep.

\-----

Aside from the occasional burns or cuts along his extremities, Credence’s devil hadn’t caused him pain since the incident with his arm. The little unpleasantries were nothing compared to what Ma gave him, so he could mostly just ignore them. One thing that was troubling, though, was the occasional vertigo that he would experience. It was as though his devil was spinning him round in circles and dropping him and he would sometimes be overcome with nausea.

He also began noticing little changes in himself. When he got particularly angry, he had a tendency to make things move when they weren’t supposed to. The occurrences were troubling, as he knew it was the witch’s influence in him fighting its way out. He tried to hold it back, the tingling, nudging sensation, but it was hard, too hard.

At supper one night, Modesty let slip that she had given one of the street boys an extra piece of bread because he seemed sick. Their Ma had been so angry that she raised her voice at Modesty.

“There is nothing righteous in giving handouts to those who won’t work for it, Modesty. I know the boy you speak of and he’s been avoiding services for some time now.”

“He’s been sick, Ma,” she protested. “I just thought—”

“Next time you want to give out more than is due, you’ll go to bed without supper, you hear me?” 

“But, Ma—”

“And talking back will get you the belt,” their Ma warned. 

Modesty quieted at that, knowing full well the suffering that Credence was subjected to. If she ever received a lash from the belt, there would be no turning back. Their Ma would watch her more closely, believing that her youngest was caving to the witch’s influence. It had happened the same with Credence—once she had started on him, he had no way to redeem himself.

Credence sat through the exchange, feeling the swell of witchcraft bubbling in his chest. He was angry, so angry that Modesty had been threatened, and it had manifested uncontrollably in the form of the legs snapping under their Ma’s chair. 

She toppled to the ground, letting out an indignant shriek as Chastity and Modesty gasped and watched in fear. Credence held his breath, his blood running a cold shiver through his body. When their Ma picked herself up from the floor, she wore the most enraged look any of them had ever seen. 

Her glare bore into Credence, even as he shook his head pitifully. She was upon him in an instant, wrenching his arm and dragging him to the chapel, shouting at the girls to keep their seats.

\---------

Newt was so close to the Demiguise that he could practically taste triumph when its eyes flashed in warning. He thought little of it, trying to approach in the most unexpected way, when the first cut tore into his back. He was so shocked by it that he dropped to the jungle floor with a howl that startled the ape-like creature in front of him invisible. The second hit had him clawing at his back frantically. He feared, for an instant, that something had stalked up behind him and attacked, but his fingers found no defects in his shirt and no blood.

The third strike had him curling, bringing his hands up to touch his face and neck, trying to send the gesture to his soulmate. He felt a ghost grip on his thighs as they clenched against the painful lash to their back. 

Newt pressed his fingertips into his skin, whispering, “I’m sorry, love. I’m so sorry.”

When the cuts where no longer coming down against their shoulder blades, Newt rubbed his hands soothingly over his face, willing the touch through the feedback loop. He remained curled among the knots of vines and dew-covered leaves. Though he knew words wouldn’t reach through their bond, he still murmured softly, like a prayer. “I’m so, so sorry. You didn’t deserve it, love. I’m here, shh.”

He hugged himself, rocking gently, hoping to calm his poor soulmate. The weight of a hand pressed into his shoulder and he mimicked the gesture, imagining his hand covering his soulmate’s. He continued to chant out affirmations, startled when an actual hand rested against his back. 

Newt whirled in shock, coming face to face with the huge, worried eyes of the Demiguise.


	5. Connected

The year was 1926 and Newt had nearly completed his manuscript. A quick swing through Egypt brought a new resident to his expanded case: a Thunderbird that had been circulating through black market trade groups. Beast in tow, Newt continued on through Sudan, investigating an interesting rumor before he made the hop to America to release his Arizonan friend.

He made contact with a group of Muggles who regarded him warily. They spoke some broken English, enough to warn him that they were harboring a demon. Newt boasted that he was something of a specialist in such things and it earned him an invitation into a small village governed by superstition. There, he found a peculiar girl, imprisoned in a sort of magic-repelling barrier. 

The barrier was crude but potent enough that it burned if Newt drew too close to it, a concoction of poisons that the village Oracle had created to subdue the girl. She looked up at him with haunted white eyes, her cheeks gaunt and her body wasted away to barely more than bone. Her form dissolved from that of a human to a pile of black sand, swirling in a flurry inside the barrier.

She was dying, being torn apart from the inside out by a toxic magic unlike anything Newt had ever encountered before. He consulted the Oracle, faking expertise in the occult and exorcisms until the Council of Elders agree to let him have a crack at the girl. They didn’t seem to care if she lived or died, so long as the village was rid of her, but Newt desperately hoped he could extract her Obscurus.

\----

He failed. 

He failed and she slipped away in his arms. He failed and her human body was swept away to be burned like refuse. He failed to save her but her Obscurus remained in the barrier of the bubble he had created to contain it. The Muggles watched him warily, and Newt had the chilling feeling that they were close to turning on him, too. He had, after all, used magic to combat the girl and, though he had succeeded in ridding the village of their pest, he just knew that they were unlikely to let him leave quietly. 

He stashed the Obscurus in his case and, before anyone could get the idea to detain him, he disapparated to safety.

\------

Credence felt the sick, twisty pull at his stomach, the feeling of being dropped, and he nearly gagged at the sensation. He ducked into and alley and braced his back against the brick, gasping to steady himself. The nausea waned and a sudden chill washed over his skin, as though he’d been dunked in ice. He could feel his devil pawing frantically at his hands and a peculiar chill prickling his cheeks.

\-----

Newt holed up in the arctic habitat he had created. There was freezing wind whipping over him but he didn’t bother to tuck his coat in tighter. He’d killed the girl and he wanted to suffer, just for a little while. He wrung his hands, knowing that the chill on his fingers must be sending an unpleasant feedback to his soulmate, and he grappled with the guilt of subjecting them to it. 

“I’m sorry, love, but I’ve done something horrible,” Newt pleaded. He hugged his knees to his chest, burying his face so the tears could soak into his pants. “You don’t deserve this, but I do. I really, really do, so please...”

His teeth had begun to chatter when a gentle caress ran up his neck and into his hairline. His whole body shook and wracked into a sob as the touch became like more of a petting. Much as he wanted to punish himself further, he knew it wasn’t fair to the one connected to him, that he must be causing them great distress. Gathering himself, Newt stood and dragged out of the habitat, leaving the Obscurus floating in the center of the stark snowy room.

He shooed Dougal away as he returned to his shed and he promptly shuffled out of his wet clothes and collapsed into his tiny cot. A warming spell was cast over the top of his blankets to wick the chill from his skin and his soulmate’s stroking continued with relieved vigor once his shivering stopped.

“I know, love,” Newt whispered. “That was inconsiderate of me.” He found his mark, palmed it soundly, and cried easily when the gesture was returned.

\-----

Credence kept to himself for the rest of the day, enough that it worried Modesty. She sneaked into the attic when their Ma was fast asleep and found her brother sitting in bed, bunched up in the corner next to the wall, his head tucked down toward his shoulder, resting atop his hand which was gripping the bony curve of it.

“Credence, what’s wrong?” she whispered. She tiptoed closer and Credence shot her a look of warning when she approached his bed.

“Go to bed, Modesty,” he said quietly. 

She noticed the way his fingers twitched on his shoulder and she could guess what it meant. “Is your devil upset?”

It struck him as an odd question, though, to be fair, he’d been in constant contact with his devil since that morning. It had been incredibly needy, reaching out to probe at Credence’s arm whenever he dropped his hand down from his shoulder. 

But, the devil felt neither pain nor sadness, by all accounts that Credence had ever heard. It thrived on tragedy and despair, in fact.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Credence scoffed. “What could possibly upset a devil?”

Modesty admitted, “Mine doesn’t like when I ignore it. It pinches my arm if I do.”

That sounded nothing like what his devil had ever done and Credence sighed, “Do you really think our devils are different?”

“I think so,” Modesty insisted. “Hey, if we’re the only ones that feel ‘em, do you think they get lonely?”

Her words struck him harder than any lashing he’d received from the belt. The thought that some sentient being relied on him for comfort was overwhelming, and for an instant he felt an intense pity for his devil. He shuddered, feeling pressure building in his chest.

“Yeah, it probably is lonely,” Credence said, his voice barely audible. “Moddy, I’m really tired. Go on, now, so I can go to sleep.”

She pouted at him. “If you say so…” She paused at the door, turning back to him and realizing her words had hurt him. “You’re really nice to your devil, Credence, so I bet it isn’t lonely. It prolly likes you a lot.”

He didn’t respond and after a moment of quiet, she disappeared from the doorway. Credence wrestled with the idea that his devil was... not just an unseen force. He’d always been able to feel it, but he had assumed that the little pains, gentle touches, and sensations of warmth were just a power that the devil had over him, a way to sway him toward sin, no matter how kind the contact had seemed. More recently, he had dared to consider that maybe the contact was just… that—contact, no strings attached, no motive behind it. His devil had, after all, never pushed him to do anything problematic. If anything, it simply comforted him when he was hurting in any way.

Now, Credence was plagued with new ideas. Did his devil experience sadness or hurt? Did it feel pain? It always knew when Credence was being punished and he had assumed it was because it was always watching. But, what if, instead, it was actually feeling? Any touch that Credence placed on himself placated the devil, as though it was physically reaching it. Was that true for any sensation that hit his body? Did his devil mutually feel the pleasure of his hand stroking his most intimate areas? The bite of the cold New York air on his fingers? The pain of the belt against his palms?

The pain—the constant, awful pain of his hand—was he hurting his devil? Even worse, could his devil actually see what was happening to him or did it just… feel?

Credence wondered, feeling very ill with the idea, what if his devil thought the pain from the belt was a punishment for it? What if it thought Credence was trying to cast it out? What if the gentle touches following a beating were a plea from his devil—to please, please, not get rid of it?

Credence imagined a small, scared voice, begging, “Please, I’ll do better next time. Don’t throw me away.”

Credence felt a suffocating tightness around his throat and he moved to stand in front of his window. The glass didn’t set in the pane evenly and a draft always found a way in. Most nights it was miserable, but now the cold air was much appreciated. He pushed the window open fully, leaning out the sill to take a deep, cool breath. The pressure in his chest didn’t wane, though, and he stole a glance to the street below. 

It was late enough that the streets had cleared and the lampposts illuminated a path in either direction away from the church. Credence rocked forward a bit too much and a wave of dizziness pulsed through him, along with an insistent tug. It didn’t feel like his devil and it perplexed him. He felt hazy, vaguely noticing that his devil’s touch had faded from his shoulder, and it comforted him to think that maybe it had finally settled down after an entire day of anxious probing, that maybe it wasn’t afraid of being thrown away. 

His head spun as he counted the cobblestones below, trying to bring his vision back into focus. It was a sickening feeling, one of fear of the dizzying height that he teetered toward but also one of curious attraction. A heavy force inside him was dragging him forward, nearer and nearer the edge of the window until he tipped out entirely.

\--------------

Newt shuddered awake as his stomach did flips and he hung his head over the edge of his cot, feeling bile rising in his throat. He coughed it down, swinging his legs to the floor. He sat, head in his hands as the room spun. 

Theseus had said before that experience Apparition through the feedback loop had gone something like this—a dizzy, spinning, sickening sensation. He had learned it himself a few years prior to his soulmate, but he always said that even knowing the direct feeling of apparating and feeling it secondarily were two very different things. Newt could only imagine that that’s what this was.

The sensation lasted for an extended period, though, drawn out more than even the longest jump he’d ever made. When his stomach finally settled, his mind was wracked with questions—first and foremost, why had his soulmate learned the technique so late? It was standard education to be taught Apparition at seventeen, but his soulmate had recently turned twenty-three. Newt had honestly wondered if his soulmate might be a Squib or, through some freak coincidence, a Muggle, with how little magical influence he had felt through their feedback. But now, he was in a confused stupor. 

Another wave of vertigo punched his gut and he couldn’t hold down the sick.

\-------

Credence landed on all fours, gravel roughing his palms and knees. He felt like his body was being wrenched apart and then slapped back together and the magnitude of it had him spitting bile onto the train tracks. 

Train tracks?

He took a look around, barely believing where he was. The darkness of the subway tunnel surrounded him and he struggled to stand and stumble up onto the platform. He remembered tumbling fearlessly out the window but he honestly didn’t know how he’d arrived in the tunnel. 

A light touch against his arm snapped him back to reality and he whirled to the side, half expecting to see his devil materialized before him. The night had already tipped into the surreal, after all, and seeing a flesh version of his devil seemed par for the course. There was nothing beside him, though, just the touch ghosting on his arm. It seemed to be searching, tentative, and nearly as confused as Credence was.

\----------

After that night, Newt experienced the uncomfortable sensation more and more often, and with each subsequent encounter with it, Newt became less convinced that it was Apparition he was feeling. Unpleasant as it may have been, Theseus had adapted to the feedback quickly and Newt was no novice at Apparition, if he did say so himself. He simply refused to accept that he’d have a negative reaction to it for so long if it were, in fact, his soulmate apparating.


	6. Discovered

Credence couldn’t stop the gaps in his memory. One moment he’d be asleep and the next he’d be miles away, walking through the subway, and hours would have passed. He wanted to blame his devil for the confusion, but it always seemed to question the lapse in time, as well—unless Credence was just imagining that, because, really, how could he tell what a disembodied devil was thinking from touch alone?

It was also around the time that Mr. Graves started checking in on him.

The older man had approached him one evening, calming stating, “I know what you are and I can help you.”

He’d slipped a piece of paper with an address into Credence’s pocket and disappeared right before Credence’s eyes—a witch!

Or, rather, a wizard, as Mr. Graves had quickly corrected.

It so happened that Mr. Graves was an important figure among magical people in New York and he Saw things. He Saw a child that would cause a lot of trouble in the city, trouble that would mean exposure of all the witches and wizards in New York. 

“You know what will happen if people realize that magic exists, don’t you, Credence?” Mr. Graves asked. He had invited Credence into a diner, fortunately one that his Ma or the street children never frequented. It was on the nicer side of town and Credence didn’t recognize any of the faces around him. 

Mr. Graves discussed the issue over black coffee that smelled unpleasantly bitter. Credence didn’t usually drink hot beverages, but the few times he had, he’d enjoyed the taste of tea over coffee—it was strangely calming in a nostalgic way and he wondered idly if his parents before Ma had drank the stuff.

“It would be bad, Mr. Graves,” Credence answered finally. He knew what his Ma did with witches, knew what the general masses would do if they were to ever believe the sensational words she spread. He stole brief looks at Mr. Graves, thinking about his and Modesty’s ruined marks and speculating that perhaps Mr. Graves had one, too. Did all witches—and wizards, he reminded—have them?

“It would be catastrophic,” Mr. Graves emphasized. “That’s why I must find the child that will expose us and you—you will help me, Credence.”

“Me?” he echoed.

“I’ve Seen the child near your mother and I’ve Seen you, too. I’ve Seen that you’ll help me find the child and after that…” He paused over a smirk. “Credence, you’ll be a hero among wizards and you’ll finally be part of our world.”

“Part of… you mean, I’ll be a wit—a wizard?” 

“My boy, you were born as one,” Mr. Graves said. “No amount of abuse from your mother can change that. I meant that you’ll be taught how to use your magic.”

Though it seemed unreal, Credence clung to the idea of it. Though he should be wary of a stranger promising such things, the fact was that Mr. Graves was a wizard who could See things. It could be the escape he had always hoped for, and, if he was allowed into the world of magic, he might be able to bring Modesty, too.

“What can I do?” Credence whispered.

Graves smiled at him and Credence suppressed the shiver that worked up his spine as he, more or less, signed a contract with a whole new devil.

\-----

Newt never thought himself the jealous type, not that he’d ever had much of a baseline to work with, but when he began feeling an unfamiliar set of hands ghosting over him he was nearly set off. The grip worked at the back of his neck, holding firmly. Newt also couldn’t help but notice the bite of phantom fingernails in his palms.

Suddenly, Newt had an appreciation for Leta’s anger at feeling her soulmate with someone else. The feeling made his skin crawl and his soulmate’s jerky reaction didn’t help matters. 

\----

Mr. Graves came around more frequently as his concern for the child rose. He met Credence in alleyways often and late in the evening—late enough that his Ma had gotten into the routine of waiting for him on the stairs when he crept back into the church. Credence came to expect the lashes after his meetings with Mr. Graves, but that didn’t make the cuts hurt less.

His devil continually reassured him through the beatings, though, so Credence took some comfort in that. It made him wonder if Mr. Graves also had a devil that only he could feel. Musing on it, Credence lazily stroked his stomach, ignoring the raw lacerations on his palm. Mr. Graves had done him a kindness and healed some of the scarring on his right hand and his Ma had been furious about it. She had laid into him harder, flipping the belt to the buckle side and ripping up his skin. Credence sincerely hoped that Mr. Graves wouldn’t try to heal him again.

He sighed as his devil petted softly against the lowest part of his stomach—if a physical hand had been there, it would be grazing the dark curls at his groin. The church was deathly quiet, so Credence drew a finger over his stiffening head, giving his devil the go ahead. He laid his hand to the side, not wanting to irritate his torn skin, but his devil was happily compliant. 

The touch circled around him and his member twitched eagerly against his pajamas. He buried his head sideways into his pillow, keeping his breathing as even as possible. His devil’s fingers were skilled and they slid smoothly down and fondled playfully under his balls. Credence’s mouth dropped open in a quiet sigh and he bucked up, disappointed that the motion found no purchase.

His devil explored a bit further, inching invisible fingertips down and down until—

Credence gasped as a pressure played at the edge of tight muscles, teasing a little—or waiting, Credence wasn’t sure which. The touch hesitated and he tapped insistently on his thigh.

“Go on,” he whispered. “Go on, it’s okay.”

There was a moment’s pause, continued thrumming of fingers on his thigh to encourage his devil, and then an intrusion. It was a strange feeling, certainly, a feeling of stretching, of slight discomfort, even though Credence knew the action wasn’t being directly carried out on him.

His devil probed at him, searching deep and slow. Credence panted against his pillow, wanted to rut down, to make his devil move faster. Instead, he whined at the gentle movement, planting his hips firmly to his bed so he wouldn’t writhe around. 

The stretching feeling intensified as his devil added a second finger—at least what Credence assumed was a finger, giving the small girth of it. It pumped slowly, pulling the most incredible feeling from him. It was somewhat more than a tease, enough to be satisfying, but Credence still thought he could take more—would want more, even, to feel full and content. 

He knew of sodomy, of deviance, but Credence was well over feeling bad about those things when it came to his devil. It sped up its pace, thrusting lovingly into Credence and he threw his head back, holding down a moan as best he could. It took no time at all for his orgasm to ramp up and rip through him and he gritted his teeth against a cry of ecstasy. His devil continued to pump gently into him, milking his pleasure until the end. 

Once it had finished its work, Credence pressed his hand firmly to his shoulder and brought the opposite one up to stroke his jaw. He felt something like an embrace wrapping against his torso and he wriggled against it. He didn’t dare verbally thank his devil, lest someone hear him, but, oh, he wanted to, wanted to praise it for touching him so tenderly. He nestled into his bed, mildly annoyed by the wetness of the pants, but not enough to act on it, and he fell into a sound sleep as his devil snuggled him.

\--------

When Credence snapped at Mr. Graves, it was both a shock and a source of instantaneous fear. The older man had a habit of moving in close and laying his hands on Credence—on his arms, his back, his neck, wherever he could get the best anchor really. But, when a hand came up to be placed on Credence’s shoulder, he recoiled and hissed, “Don’t.”

Mr. Graves gave him a look of confusion and something else—anger? Annoyance? Credence’s hand snapped up to his shoulder and gripped it firmly. He had surprised even himself with the outburst, but he was suddenly upset to think that someone else might touch where he held his devil’s hand—and odd as it was to think of it like that, it’s the conclusion that Credence had come to for what the gesture meant.

“Is something wrong, Credence?” Mr. Graves asked, a dangerous edge lining his words.

“No, sir,” Credence said quickly. “Slept on it wrong, is all.”

Mr. Graves eyed him suspiciously, but said little else of it. He had come to receive a report on any leads, of which Credence still had none.

\-----

Newt’s arrival in New York was not going exactly as planned. He’d discovered an anti-magic hate group, lost his niffler in a Muggle bank, of all places, stumbled into a Muggle who’d taken up his suitcase by accident… the list went on and on, really. Somewhere between a handful of his beasts escaping and being apprehended by an American witch, Newt felt that coming to the States may have been a terrible idea, especially with Grindelwald’s sudden disappearance in Europe sending half the wizarding world into a frenzy.

He wanted nothing more than to round up his creatures and make a break for Arizona to release Frank, but fate had other ideas. Tina had somehow found Newt and his new Muggle friend Jacob after their successful capture of the Erumpent and locked them inside the case. When the lid was finally unlocked, Newt expected to be back in the Goldstein’s house, staring down two very disappointed witches. Instead, he was surrounded by rows of the most influential wizards and witches in the world.

His case was confiscated, his beasts' lives left to a no-doubt unfair trial, and Newt and Tina found themselves in an interrogation by the MACUSA’s director. He put on a big show of how Newt clearly released his beasts to expose wizard kind—which was utterly ridiculous. Then, he displaced the little Sudanese girl’s Obscurus from the case, flaunting it in front of Newt.

He had some troubling notions about the Obscurus, alluding that it could be used for something. Newt could detect the gleam in the director’s eyes, the same gleam that his superiors in the war had shown when they spoke about his dragons—the discovery of a weapon, reaching for a power that they should never have had control over.

\-----

Credence had a sick feeling in his gut, like something was terribly wrong. He stole a moment in the alley, saying he was going to clear a mess that vandals had made on the wall outside the church. He shuddered when Mr. Graves appeared before him, his gaze intense and angry—definitely angry this time. He claimed that time was running out for the child and he made a show of forcing Credence’s palm up to heal it, as though the gesture would make him search harder somehow. He bestowed Credence with a necklace, one that had a triangular shape that his Ma would immediately recognize as a witch’s symbol if she were to find it. 

Credence trudged back into the church, the ill feeling increasing. Mr. Graves needed a child, a magical child close to his Ma, a child who could expose the world of magic. He had avoided thinking about specific children, hoping that one of the street kids would turn up with a strange, wild power that would intrigue Mr. Graves. But, he realized fearfully that Mr. Graves’ description matched Modesty’s profile. 

He pressed a shaky hand to his shoulder, an emptiness settling in his stomach when the familiar weight was not returned. He climbed the stairs to his sisters’ shared bedroom, feeling as though he was walking to his death sentence.

\-----

One troubling thing was piling up after another. All his creatures except for Dougal had been located and placed back in the case, but Newt knew that catching the Demiguise in the first place had been a literal pain. The creature had only come to Newt at that time because he had felt sorry for the wizard. Now, Newt had little hope of finding him. 

Tina offered a solution through an old contact of hers, but Newt was skeptical.

In the speakeasy, smoke filled the air and liquor was placed in Newt’s hand. He sipped it, not wanting to make a scene over a drink, but also not wanting to become inebriated. While they waited for Gnarlak to arrive, Newt puzzled over something odd he’d seen in Tina’s memories.

“I saw something in that death potion back there,” he said tentatively, keeping his gaze low. “I saw you hugging that Second Salem boy.”

She gave him a sad smile and said, “His name’s Credence.” Her expression hardened and Newt couldn’t tell if it was because she wanted to cry. “His mother beats him.”

Newt watched her carefully, his eyes coming up to meet hers.

“She beats all those kids she’s adopted, but she seems to hate him the most,” Tina continued, dropping her eyes to the table. Her brows furrowed and she swallowed the tears rising in her throat.

“She was the No-Maj you attacked?” Newt asked.

As Tina explained what had happened, Newt was playing over her words, thinking back to the boy in question. What exactly had he looked like? He wasn’t a child, surely, but Newt wasn’t positive. He could have been tall for his age, Newt imagined, but he certainly looked to be at least twenty. 

Before he could worry further, Gnarlak appeared from behind the bar.

\--------

The wand under Modesty’s bed was a shock, something that Credence really hadn’t expected from her. He turned in in his hand as his sister’s voice called out, “Whatcha doin’, Credence?”

He nearly nailed his head on the bed frame as he ducked out from under the bed skirt. He had a hard time looking at her directly as a heaviness built in his gut. It was paired with the rumbling force of his magic, trying to push out. “Modesty, what is this?”

“Give it back, Credence,” she pleaded. “It’s just a toy.”

“You know it isn’t safe,” Credence hissed.

“I know, but I just—” Her words fell off as footsteps sounded and came to a halt at the door. The look of fear in Credence’s eyes was telling enough that Modesty didn’t have to turn around to know that their Ma was standing there.

\------

With Dougal and the Occamy chick safely captured, Newt returned to the case with Jacob and the Goldstein sisters. He allowed himself a moment to wind down as he made the rounds feeding all his beasts and having an apologetic chat with Pickett.

Queenie was interested in something just inside the shed and Newt jolted when she asked, “Newt, who’s she?”

“Nobody,” Newt said curtly. He knew Queenie could just read him to find out, but he hoped that she wouldn’t.

“Leta Lestrange,” she gasped. “I’ve heard of that name. Aren’t they kind of… y’know…”

“Please don’t read my mind,” Newt pleaded. His mind wandered helplessly to Leta, to when they were friends, to when she’d suggesting hooking up for the sake of it. She’d pushed the issue further as they approached graduation, to the point that Newt couldn’t stand it. The last thing she’d said to him before they parted for good was that she hoped his soulmate would start fucking someone else, that would teach Newt to pander to someone he’d never meet anyway.

Queenie’s eyes looked dewy and Newt repeated, “Please, I asked you not to.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t help it,” she said. “People are easiest to read when they’re hurting.”

“I’m not… It was a long time ago,” Newt explained. 

“I’m sure you’ll meet them, honey,” Queenie offered. “Your soulmate, I mean. And when you do, they’ll be really happy that you waited for them, don’t you worry.”

Newt didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He had no words and even if he thought of any, Queenie would know them. He busied himself with a bowl of feed for the Bowtruckles, recoiling when a sharp pain like a slap struck across his jaw. 

Queenie gasped and shuffled over to him as he cradled a hand against his face. He could feel his entire body tingling with an odd feedback and he wrung his hands to draw his soulmate’s attention. They didn’t return a gesture and the tingle intensified like static.

“They get hurt a lot, don’t they?” Queenie asked, not expecting an answer. Newt couldn’t help but recall all the hurt he’d felt and she whimpered in sympathy. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.”

Tina approached, set to ask what was wrong when Frank erupted into a frantic screech behind them. He flapped his massive wings, kicking up lightning as he ascended.

“Danger,” Newt gasped. “He senses danger.”

\--------

Newt stared in awe at the Obscurus thrashing through the city below. He could see several wizards and witches apparating alongside the vortex of magic, throwing stunning spells at it, like ants trying to subdue a giant. Behind him, Jacob was asking if it was the Obscurus.

“That’s more powerful than any Obscurial I’ve ever heard of,” Newt said. His stomach was turning flips and he had a sudden dreadful hunch that his soulmate might be down there fighting the child, apparating back and forth around them. Newt felt a wave of sympathy for the child, though, thinking of the girl in Sudan. He turned to Tina, passing his case off to her. “If I don’t come back, please watch over my creatures.”

“Newt, you can’t—”

“I’m not letting them kill it,” Newt cut, knowing full well that the child would be executed for the damage they’d caused. He passed Tina a book from within his coat. “This has all my research, everything you’d need to know.”

He wasted no time waiting for her to argue, popping off the roof and disapparating as he fell.

\------

Graves was in the middle of the chaos when Newt arrived and ducked behind an overturned car. The Obscurus raged, slicing through walls like butter and chasing screaming Muggles away from the scene. Graves approached the Obscurus, hands raised.

“You are a miracle, Credence,” he announced. “For you to have survived this long, it’s just a miracle.”

Newt’s heart pounded in his ears and he choked down a sob that threatened to escape. 

Credence—Graves had said the Second Salem boy’s name. He wasn’t a child—the Obscurial wasn’t a child—and Newt couldn’t chalk the details up to coincidence. His soulmate was twenty-three. They never gave a feedback resembling magic because they—he—had never learned it. He was beaten and battered and hurt in ways that no one deserved and it forced him to bottle up his magic until it had nowhere to go but out. Newt stole a look over the car, watching the Obscurus thrash and pulse upwards angrily as Graves spoke. Newt’s stomach turned violently, unable to compensate for the feedback his soulmate was sending him.

Tina shouted at him from across the street, also hiding behind a vehicle. Newt screamed, “Tina, it’s the Second Salem boy! He’s my—he’s the Obscurial!”

“But, he isn’t a child!” Tina called back.

“He must be so powerful—powerful enough to withstand it for so long!”

Tina looked from Newt to the Obscurus and back and ordered, “Newt… save him!”

She darted out from her cover, engaging Graves long enough for Credence to slip between buildings. Newt fought down the nausea and apparated along the tops of buildings, staying as close as possible.


	7. Saved

Newt apparated from rooftop to rooftop, chasing the Obscurus as it ricocheted off buildings and dragged up chunks of pavement. He popped in front of the swirling black mass once and tried to shout out to the man inside, but his voice simply did not reach. There were aurors all around, firing off stunning spells that had no noticeable effect—they felt like little more than insect bites through the feedback Newt was receiving.

Credence’s shift into the Obscurus had no doubt been caused by someone hitting him in the face, and Newt’s blood boiled at the thought of it. If he could have his way, Newt would calm Credence down, get him somewhere safe, and promptly pay a visit to whoever had the audacity to strike his soulmate. As it stood, though, smuggling Credence out of the city unnoticed was going to be a feat in and of itself. 

The Obscurus sidewinded between buildings, soared up briefly, and plummeted to the ground. It burst apart, blanketing the streets before yanking back into its center point. The Obscurus shrank near the entrance to the subway, siphoning back into the thin body it had originated from. Credence took human form only long enough to stumble down the stairs into the subway.

Newt apparated onto the platform, bypassing the stairs entirely. He crept forward, searching the sandy black material that was lining the walls, trying to find its epicenter. The slow, undulating movement led back to a point on the opposite side of the tracks. Newt ducked behind a brick pillar and called out, “Credence? It is Credence, isn’t it?”

He peered around the pillar and the Obscurus shivered in fear. 

“I’m here to help you Credence,” Newt said evenly, though he was dizzy and it took immense effort to keep his voice from shaking. “I’m not here to hurt you. I would never hurt you, love.” The endearment was habitual and Newt hoped it wasn’t a mistake. The Obscurus seemed stable and Newt stepped off the platform, moving closer by inches. 

He altered his approach somewhat, though. Likely, Credence didn’t know anything about their bond and introducing him to it might escalate his panic. Instead, Newt tried speaking of the Sudanese girl. “I’ve met someone just like you, Credence. A girl… a young girl who’d been imprisoned.” He took tentative steps forward as he spoke. “She’d been locked away and she’d been punished for her magic. I know you’re afraid, but I think I can help you.”

The Obscurus pulsed on the wall, shuddered, and dripped downward. Achingly slow, it receded back into the shape of Credence curled at the edge of the tracks. Newt crouched, keeping distance between them and lowering his height as he would with a frightened creature. He could feel Credence wringing his hands anxiously and he fought to return the gesture, worried that a sudden contact might set him off again.

“Credence, can I come over to you?” Newt asked quietly. Credence didn’t respond and he repeated, “Can I come over there?”

Credence gave a slight nod and Newt began to stand. He relaxed a bit, just in time for a knock-back spell to scream down the tracks and throw him onto the rocky ground. He gasped, winded, and stared wildly up as Graves strutted into view, wand raised. Newt heard a breathless whimper from Credence and caught sight of the fearful look he was giving Graves before he scrambled up and fled deeper into the tunnel. 

There was a moment of realization for Newt, a feeling that pieces of something bigger were clicking into place. He had a gut feeling that this Graves was not exactly who he claimed to be, though he couldn’t put a finger on why. Perhaps it was the callous way Graves had sentenced Tina to death, despite her apparent trust in the Director. Perhaps it was something in the shifty way Gnarlak had looked when Newt had asked about Graves. Newt was sure of one thing, though—this man, whoever he was, had done something to frighten Credence, likely the slap to the face, if Newt had to guess, and Newt absolutely would not let that go uncontested.

Though Newt was the less confrontational of the Scamander siblings, he was a tamer of dragons and had, in fact, been raised to go toe-to-toe with his war hero brother. He wasn’t fond of fighting, but, then, he’d never had something so important to fight for. And, after all, badgers had a nasty volatility when provoked, a trait that many failed to recall when dealing with Hufflepuffs.

Newt staggered to stand and Graves whipped a lightening spell out, catching him square in the chest. Newt jolted and, further in the tunnel, Credence seized up and yelped from the feedback. Graves hesitated, only for a moment, when he heard the cry and cast a wide-eyed, knowing look down at Newt. 

The split-second pause was enough for Newt to right himself and disapparate, popping backwards to where Credence was huddled. A second string of lightening skipped along the tracks but Newt was far enough away to deflect it. He parried several more spells before Graves apparated behind him. Newt swung around to put himself between Credence and Graves again as more blue static ripped from Graves’ wand. 

Newt barely deflected it, some of the shock catching on his arm. Credence shuddered at the feedback, his silhouette oozing black. Newt quickly said, “Credence, hold yourself together.”

“C-can’t,” he whimpered. 

“You can, just a bit longer,” Newt assured. He swung his arm wide, building momentum, and shouted, “Bombarda!”

Graves braced for impact, but Newt had been aiming, instead, at the pillar closest to the Director. Brick exploded, throwing shattered pieces and plumes of dust, and Newt used the precious seconds it bought him to grab Credence by the arm and disappear with him. 

\-----

Queenie shrieked as Newt arrived in an alleyway several blocks from the subway where she and Jacob had been hiding. Credence, who had been dragged along, struggled away, looking nauseous, and Newt released him instantly. Newt scanned the area. He’d been aiming to land beside his case, and he was happy that Queenie had at least stayed somewhere far enough from the crowd that was gathering near the subway. 

“I’m sorry,” Newt said softly to Credence, feeling a phantom twist of nausea from the Apparition. The younger man’s body looked hazy, like he would phase at any moment, and Newt ached to reach out for him again. “There was no time to warn you about the jump. I know it takes some getting used to.”

“Newt,” Queenie gasped, “what in the world happened? Where’s Tina?”

“She was… she should be around here somewhere,” Newt said, not breaking eye contact with Credence. If he turned to look at Queenie, it would feel too much like abandonment. His mind played back for her, showing her that Tina had fought with Graves.

“You don’t think… he’s a lot stronger than Tina, though,” Queenie said cautiously. 

“I’ll double back, but first, my case,” Newt said hurriedly. “I need my case.” To hide him, Newt thought. Before he could stop himself, his mind filled with frantic excerpts: have to hide him, can’t let them find him, I’ve only just found him, soulmate—my soulmate, how am I going to tell him—

Queenie appeared at his side, drawing his attention when she shifted the case to him. She was biting her bottom lip in a sly smile. “Here ya go, honey.”

“Queenie, not a word—”

“I didn’t say nothin’,” she said sweetly. 

Newt shook his head and looked back to Credence who was watching them closely. Newt clicked open the case and gestured into it. “Credence, I need you to hop in, okay? It’s—” Credence gave him a disbelieving frown. “Oh, right, there’s a ladder that leads into a room. Magical case. You can hide in here until this is over.”

“Mr. Graves is looking for me now,” Credence said shakily. 

“He won’t find you in here,” Newt assured. “Please, Credence. We’ve got to be quick. My friend might be in danger. She was going to fight Graves, to protect you. I just need to check that she’s all right and then I’ll come back.”

Credence fought the urge to paw at his shoulder, to request a reassuring touch—really, he had been feeling a lot of pain and conflicting feelings and no comforting touches to combat them. It was very unlike his devil to stay distant when he was hurting and it was troubling. 

Newt, too, was stopping himself from making contact, fearing that it might startle Credence to see the source of the sensation. Queenie cleared her throat beside him and knowingly whispered, “It might not.”

“Not now,” Newt muttered.

Credence stared down at the open suitcase, seeing a warmly lit room within. He felt shaken straight to his bones and he was worried that he might fall to pieces again if Mr. Graves found him. If this room was actually safe, if he wouldn’t be discovered there, he could calm down, pull himself together and keep the darkness from bursting out again. Though he had told Mr. Graves that he didn’t want to control the chaos inside him, he had been angry. Now, he would like for it to settle down before he hurt someone again, as he had his Ma and Chastity, before he frightened someone, as he had poor Modesty.

“Honey, it’s safe in here,” Queenie said gently. “You can go inside and calm down and nobody else has to get hurt tonight, okay?”

Credence gave her a confused look, wondering how she seemed to know what he was thinking, but he didn’t ask it aloud. He gazed back into the case and took a very awkward, unsure step into it. 

“Good,” Newt said. “That’s it, mind your step. And, Credence, just know there are animals in there, magical creatures. Some of the smaller ones may come in and out of the room as they please, but just let them go about their business and they won’t bother you.”

“I won’t, Mister…” He hesitated, realizing that he didn’t know his rescuer’s name.

“Scamander,” he replied. “Newt Scamander, but please, Newt is fine.”

“Newt,” Credence repeated, finding the name to sound a little humorous, though he didn’t allow a smile to cross his features. He shuffled on into the case.

“Down you go, that’s the way,” Newt said. “I’ll join you very soon, so just sit tight.” Newt closed the case carefully over Credence’s head and passed it back to Queenie. “I trust you’ll keep this safe. I’d feel much better about it if you were farther away, though.” Newt felt the familiar probing hand at his shoulder and he quickly returned it now that Credence was out of sight. “Bugger, I’ve been wanting to do that all night. What a mess.”

“Do what?” Jacob asked in confusion.

“Wizard stuff, honey,” Queenie said simply. “Newt, I can hear Tina not too far from here, but it’s muffled. I think she may have gotten past the barrier into the subway.”

“I’ll retrieve her, don’t worry,” Newt said. “Just take Credence somewhere safe, Queenie. I’m trusting you.” He ducked out of the alley and disapparated back to the subway.

\----

Hours passed with no sign of Newt. 

Credence kept to himself, trying to observe the surrounding without touching anything in the cluttered room. There were walls of books and stacks of papers, messy sketches of incredible animals and scratchy notes about them. Credence studied the sketches, admiring the details. He wondered if Newt had drawn them and he wanted to run his fingertips along the charcoal lines. 

Leafy plants and vines grew throughout the room, some smelling crisp and medicinal, some bitter, and some heavy and sweet. A kettle was placed on a lone burner, abandoned and cold, though it was full of water. The corner nearest the stove was bracketed by shelving that contained jars of loose leaf teas.

Credence found a sofa in the room and planted himself in it, reeling back the smoky edges of his magic. The time alone was not the blessing Credence had hoped for, instead ushering in insecure thoughts. Mr. Graves had said he had no magic, but he had no other way to explain the darkness inside. Of course, Mr. Graves had been quick to apologize, no matter how insincere it seemed, so maybe he had been wrong. Maybe he could ask Mr. Scamander—Newt, he’d said to call him Newt—about it later.

He could hear strange noises coming from a door at the opposite end of the room and he assumed they were the cries of the animals Newt had alluded to. There was a scratching at the door and Credence shuddered at the sound. Newt said the smaller animals could come and go, but what if there were some that needed the door opened? 

He lifted up from his seat and staggered to the door, hesitating in front of it. Maybe the creature on the other side wasn’t allowed in the room, but surely it belonged there more than he. He outstretched his hand to the knob as it turned of its own accord and the door swung open. 

Credence stumbled back as a furry white ape-like creature clamored into the room and regarded him curiously. Credence stared at the beast then up and through the doorway. Beyond it, there was a wooden platform that dropped down into forests and oceans and wildernesses, the likes of which Credence had never seen before. He staggered back, his magic swirling eagerly, and collapsed onto the floor, staring in awe at the world before him.

\-------

Credence held his breath as the lid to the case creaked open. The fearful part of him expected to see the polished shoes and spats that Mr. Graves always wore. Instead, Newt’s well-worn boots thumped onto the ladder and he practically leaped into the room moments later. He offered Credence a lopsided smile, brushing the sweep of his bangs away from his face. He looked exhausted but no worse for the wear than Credence.

“Well, a lot has happened today,” Newt began. He wanted to explain the situation to Credence, but he had to do it delicately. “It would appear that the man you knew as Graves… well, he wasn’t the person he claimed to be. His name is actually Gellert Grindelwald and he was impersonating the director of magical security.” Credence was sitting in front of the door that led out into the habitats and he seemed terribly jumpy, like he thought he had committed an offense by being there. Newt swaggered up and took a seat beside him. “Did you go out into the habitat at all?”

Credence shook his head fearfully. “No, I didn’t, I wouldn’t. I’m sorry I left the door open, but those little things came up and… they were interesting.”

Newt glanced out into the case and a cluster of Doxies chirruped to him from the other side of the threshold. “They’re very curious creatures. I’m sure they’re happy to see a new face,” Newt said easily. “No harm done, really.”

“What happened… to Mr. Graves?” Credence asked cautiously.

“We were able to reveal him for what he was,” Newt said. “He was taken into the custody of MACUSA—the Magical Congress. They are the governing body here in America.” Newt locked his eyes to the ground. “Just so you know, they think you’re dead. Tina and I were able to convince them that your Obscurus had consumed you. Grindelwald denied it, of course, but, seeing as how he is an untrustworthy sort, MACUSA wasn’t about to take his word over ours.”

“My… what?” Credence murmured, hung on a word that Newt had used.

“Oh, right,” Newt gasped. “Your magic, it takes on a unique form know as an Obscurus.”

His magic. Credence wanted to cry at the words. 

Newt could feel the twinge of tightness in his throat and he feared that he had said something wrong. “Is something the matter?”

“Mr. Graves… or at least the one that I know,” Credence clarified, “he said I didn’t have magic.”

Newt gave a wry smile. “Well, that certainly isn’t true. The very existence of your Obscurus is proof of that. It’s actually raw magic, doesn’t get much more blatant than that. Have you calmed down from it, by the way?”

“Yes, sir,” Credence said quickly.

Newt cringed at the formality. “Please, it’s just Newt.” He stood, shucking out of his coat and placing the garment over the back of a tattered armchair. “We’re here for the night. Rather, I should say my case is in safe keeping with Tina and Queenie, so we can rest in here. Unless, of course, you’d like to go up and meet them properly?”

“No,” Credence said quietly. “I don’t feel so well. I think I may still be feeling a spell that hit me.”

“Are you injured badly?” Newt asked. He could feel soreness echoing through their connection, but Newt had grown to have a relatively high tolerance for pain and the aching might be worse for Credence. “I have potions that could help, if you’d like.”

“I think I just need sleep,” Credence refused.

“You’re sure? It would be no trouble.” Newt pilfered through his medicine shelf and pulled out a vial anyway. He offered it over to Credence. “I insist. No reason to let it linger.”

Credence regarded the little glass bottle with awe, rolling it in his hand. Newt was watching him expectantly and so he uncorked the vial and drank the potion inside. It tasted sweet and sent a wave of relief through his system. The little bruises from the clash in the subway ebbed away and the freshest cuts on his hands stitched closed.

Newt felt a sigh wash through their feedback and he busied himself putting the kettle on. “That’s better then?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Would you like a cup of tea while I’m making it?” Newt asked, lighting a flame under the kettle. “Or perhaps you prefer coffee?”

“I don’t… actually like coffee very much.”

“That’s good, because I don’t actually, um… have any...” Newt left the kettle to boil, removed his waistcoat, and loosened his tie. His muscles throbbed with aftershock from the lightening and he took a potion himself before the feeling could bother Credence. “Would you like to see my creatures? I’d be happy to introduce you to them.”

“No,” Credence retorted, looking back out into the case briefly. “Maybe not tonight anyway.”

“That’s fine. They’ll be there in the morning, too, after all.” 

Credence crawled up from the floor and shifted onto the sofa. Newt sat opposite Credence in the beat-up armchair. The shirt he wore underneath all the discarded layers was loose-fitting. He leaned close to speak and the collar of his shirt fell open just enough that Credence could see the outer edge of a design peeking out from under the material.

“If you aren’t opposed, it would probably be wise for you to travel with me for a bit, at least to get you out of America. I’ll be going to London in a few days so…”

Newt’s voice quieted and stopped altogether when he noticed Credence’s curious look and the younger man shot a fearful look up at him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.”

“I’m used to it,” Newt assured. “My mark is visible enough to be noticed if I dress lightly. People ask about it often, actually.”

“Do all witches have them?” Credence asked eagerly. “And wizards, sorry.”

Newt’s heart skipped at the question. “We do.”

“Is it a ritual, then, or are you all born with them?”

“We—” Newt put emphasis on the word, “—all receive them at some point in our lives. Mine appeared when I was a young boy.” Because you gave it to me, he wanted to say. “Some of us are born with them, though.” As you were, he wanted to say. 

Newt wanted to see Credence’s mark, to confirm its match to his. He wondered where the mark had manifested on the younger wizard and wanted desperately to ask. He needed to approach slowly, though, and he instead said, “You should also have one, too, Credence. You are a wizard.”

“I… don’t anymore,” Credence whispered. 

“What d’you mean ‘anymore’, if you don’t mind my asking?” Newt’s heart hurt at the thought of what he could possibly mean. 

“Ma… my adopted mother,” Credence clarified. “She knew what it was, that it meant that I was…” He felt like he was choking. “She burned it off when I was very young.”

“Your hand?” Newt blurted without really meaning to. A wide-eyed look from Credence was the consequence of his blatancy, but Newt was rapidly losing the will to dance around the truth. Some monster of a woman had disfigured Credence and suddenly the knowledge of it shed light onto the years of abuse Newt had felt through their connection. 

“How did you know that, Mr. Scamander?” Credence asked warily.

Newt was painfully aware of the switch in names. He rose out of his chair to kneel in front of the younger man. “Please don’t be afraid of me, Credence.” 

He offered his left hand, willing his fingers to extend open. Though his hand hadn’t been directly injured, it was still tied closely to Credence’s. Newt had grown so used to keeping his fingers curled that the unfolding motion was extremely difficult, like moving something that wasn’t even attached to him.

Credence shakily placed his ruined hand in Newt’s, trembling as Newt passed his free hand over the top of it. Fingertips traced the rough skin of the burn and Newt looked very near crying.

“Can I heal this for you?” Newt offered, his voice sounding like a plea. “It would be no trouble at all.”

Credence was wary, but, of course, there would be no one to be upset by the sudden disappearance of the scar, no belt waiting to replace the hurt. Credence had effectively ensured that, intentional or no. And, as much as his mind screamed that the healing would lead to debt, he didn't want to believe it. He nodded slowly and Newt took a clumsy hold of his wrist. He brushed his right hand against the mottled skin and his voice sounded like a prayer as he whispered, “Dermincendia reparo.”

The skin of Credence’s hand shivered, stretching and relaxing over his knuckles. The warped color of his previously destroyed mark bled vibrantly back to the surface, and he couldn’t hold the tears back as he saw it again. His fingers were still stiff, fixed in a half-fist, but the back of his hand had become a smooth, soft canvas for the intricate mark. He drew his right hand up to cover his mouth, blocking a sob, and was surprised to hear one anyway, coming from the man in front of him. Newt hung his head, pressing his forehead to Credence’s mark, and tears spilled over the freshly healed skin.

“Mr. Scamander?” Credence squeaked. “Newt?”

Newt shook his head, brushing his coppery hair against Credence’s wrist. He drew his right hand back, pressing his hand roughly against the hollow of his collarbone where his own mark laid, and Credence shivered as he felt pressure on his shoulder—exactly where his devil would touch.


	8. Connected

Credence stared at the man in front of him, trying to make sense of what was happening. He could feel Newt’s fingers clenching at his shoulder just as plainly as he could his hiccupping breath against the renewed mark on his hand. The touch was familiar, too intimately familiar, and Credence was suddenly reminded of all the reassurance his devil had given him. All the times his hands had ached with cold and his devil had warmed them, kissing his knuckles. All the times, late at night, that his devil had—

The kettle whistled and Credence burst into a sandy cloud.

Newt startled back, reeling with vertigo, and he quickly held his hands up. “Credence, wait!”

The Obscurus tumbled violently backwards, crashing into a shelf and overturning it. Inside the black cyclone, Credence was coherent, though barely, and he tried to keep himself contained. His magic could easily fill a subway tunnel, and he knew that allowing it to expand to that size would send it ripping out of the little room, if not the case itself. He made a lap around the room’s perimeter, knocking things around but leaving the walls intact. 

Newt remained motionless inside the loop the Obscurus had formed, watching it intently. After a few passes, Credence had calmed considerably and he slowly began to reform. When his body pieced back together, his knees buckled and he dropped to the floor a few feet from Newt, surrounded by askew books and papers.

Newt said nothing, though it appeared very difficult for him to do so, and left Credence to gather his thoughts. 

The thing that Credence had always called a devil was, in fact, a person that was somehow feeling everything he felt. Newt knew about his hand because he had also experienced it. Newt knew about his pain and had always been the one to comfort him. Credence’s cheeks burned with the shameful implications of the fact and he cast a fearful look up to the other man.

“It was you?” he whispered. “My whole life, what I’ve felt… it was you?”

“It was me, yes,” Newt said carefully, not daring to move.

“I always—I thought—” Credence ratted his hands into his hair, tucking his chin to his chest. “I thought you were—I called you a devil.”

“I’m sure that there are some who would agree with you on that,” Newt said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. It didn’t work, of course, but it was worth a shot.

“You’ve felt everything?” Credence whimpered. “All those things Ma did?”

“That wasn’t your fault, Credence,” Newt said gently. “And, besides, I’ve made you feel some pretty unpleasant things, too, haven’t I?”

“No,” Credence said quickly. “You’ve never—I never thought that—” He recalled the minor slices of pain, burns and heaviness in his lungs, and, worst of all, a broken arm when he was a child. But, those hurts were few and far between and hardly compared to the daily abuse he had no doubt subjected the older man to. That, and the nice sensations had always far outweighed the painful ones, though Credence wasn’t really sure how to approach explaining that.

The man before him had felt the fruition of his most vulgar desires. Credence shivered at the thought of it. Newt was apparently aware of the connection, so it must be something common among wizards, but that didn’t mean he had asked for it. Credence was able to justify his sin by telling himself a devil was involved in it, but what must Newt think, knowing that it was another person? Had he begrudgingly accepted his fate and caved in, knowing he had no escape? Credence could count on his hands the times that he had offered comforting touches when he felt pain coming from his ‘devil,” whereas he frequently received them. Was he really the devil in this equation, doling out pain and obscenity and little else?

Credence could feel his body stretching apart again and he curled into himself with a shuddering sob. He vaguely heard the creak of a floorboard and then Newt was dropping to a crouch in front of him, looking terribly distraught. 

“Credence, listen to me,” Newt said. He felt nauseous again as his soulmate’s form warped toward transparency. “I don’t blame you for anything that woman did. You’ve never harmed me, not once.”

“That’s not true! I’ve—” Credence raised his head, not expecting Newt to be so close. His face felt uncomfortably heated and he stammered, “The things I’ve done to you are—I’m—and we’re both men—!”

“We’re both… oh—oh, that.” Newt swayed back to sit on his heels and his cheeks burned with realization. “Is that what you’re worried about? Credence, you do realize I was an active participant in that, right?”

“Did you have a choice?” Credence blurted.

“I had just as much choice in it as you.”

“Was it some curse put on you that stuck you with me?”

“Not a curse,” Newt said simply, “and, it was never something I resented. I can’t speak for you, but, if I can be so bold, I’d say I rather like the way… that it… feels.” His words were tangled in his throat and he felt so embarrassed that he might just die, but, judging by the look on Credence’s face, he got his point across.

“O-oh,” Credence stuttered. 

The kettle still whistled and Newt flicked his wrist to move it wordlessly off the burner. He wrung his hands and Credence noticed that his left seemed as stiff as his own. “I suppose homosexuality is still considered wrong among Muggles,” Newt hummed. “You must think I’m quite the deviant, then.” 

He seemed saddened and Credence’s heart throbbed with hurt. It wasn’t that he thought less of Newt. In fact, if he had to be honest, he couldn’t remember a time that he himself had ever found a woman attractive, though he could recall a handful of instances where he felt drawn to men. It was something that he’d never dwelled on, simply because it was a risk he couldn’t afford, but it was certainly there.

“What’s a Muggle?” Credence asked quietly, warring with his thoughts.

To which Newt responded, “A non-magical person. In America, they’re called No-Majes.”

“So, magical people don’t… care?”

“It isn’t frowned upon at all to love someone of the same sex,” Newt insisted. 

“I don’t think…” Credence gulped down his anxiety. “I don’t think you’re a deviant. Or, at least, I don’t really care if you are. You’re the only one who’s…”

Newt cleared his throat, feeling the swell of upset in his chest compounding together with the equally nervous pressure he was receiving from Credence. He held his hand out slowly and Credence eyed it as though it were a poised trap. His shakily extended his marked hand, placing it in Newt’s and the other man seemed immensely happy.

“The marks,” Newt said, “they’re the reason that we feel each other the way we do. Witches and wizards all have them and they all come in pairs. Yours, it matches mine, down to the smallest detail. It’s… well, to put it simply, it’s the mate to mine, the only other mark in this world that matches exactly.”

Newt thumb brushed over the top of Credence’s hand and he wanted to melt into the contact. “Why are they like that? Matching pairs?”

“It’s a sort of magic that predates written language, so no one is entirely sure why they occur,” Newt explained. “As for their purpose, well…”

“No, that’s… obvious, I think, so you don’t have to say it.” A physical bond that could be felt from anywhere in the world, so intimate that it could only mean one thing—marks that were a pair, connecting two humans that were a matching set.

Newt’s opposite hand cautiously raised up to cradle Credence’s marked one. “When we’re little, we’re taught that finding the person with your mark is exceedingly rare. I never dared to hope that I would actually find you. It’s… I’m sorry if I’m overwhelming you, I just can’t believe that it actually happened.”

Despite his obvious anxiety, there was an ease to the way Newt spoke, the way his shoulders slouched and leaned just slightly forward. There was a strength to him but also a softness and vulnerability that had Credence itching to pull him in close. And, really, if tonight hadn’t happened, if Credence had gone about his own miserable life with Newt never appearing in it, the connection would still be present. Credence would continue the routine of pulling little pleasures from his devil, from the one being who had never asked anything of him, who had never denied him. 

He knew, realistically, that if he botched something up now, the years of contact would come to a screeching halt. He also knew that the sudden absence of the only stable force of positivity in his life would destroy him. 

Credence slipped his hand from Newt’s grip, earning a tight-lipped pout from him. He held his breath, gritted his teeth against the flurry of magic winding beneath his skin, and brought the hand to Newt’s shoulder, brushing the shirt collar aside to reveal a large swath of the brilliant mark underneath. 

Newt stilled to a statue and he didn’t dare breathe. Credence’s good hand joined the other, fingertips tracing the outer edge of the mark, memorizing it and comparing it to the one on the back of his hand—a perfect copy, save for a short line of scar tissue that dug through Newt’s. 

“What’s this?” Credence asked, his index finger ghosting over the scar.

“It’s from a dragon,” Newt said, his voice barely audible. “An Opaleye yearling. They’re usually quite docile, but this one was injured and afraid.”

“I don’t remember this,” Credence said, his words coming out more a whine than he meant them to.

“It wasn’t very painful, actually,” Newt explained. “Dragon saliva has magical properties, so their bites always leave scars, even from very minor cuts.” That particular scar, slicing through his mark, had been one of the few regrettable reminders of his work.

Credence’s hands were like ice against his chest and he wanted desperately to cast a warming spell to remedy it, as he typically would. But, he feared his soulmate wouldn’t act favorably to him carrying on as usual. He had to remember that the years spent supposedly building trust with his unseen other half would have to be considered void, given the circumstances. He’d have to start from square one—if Credence even wanted it at all. The thought that maybe his soulmate—wouldn’t—want him was scalding.

But, his fingertips left a cool trail on his mark, dipping in under his shirt to get a better view of the full thing. Credence seemed enthralled, rocking up to his knees to study the details of the mark, leaning in just enough that Newt could easily gather him into an embrace if he just—

“When did you know?” Credence asked. “That I was… connected?”

“I knew the moment you were born, though I didn’t know anything about you,” Newt answered. 

“But you knew in the subway.”

“I only figured it out a few minutes before that,” Newt replied. “I was feeling vertigo that was timed to the movement of your Obscurus.”

“I feel that, too,” Credence added, “when you… move.”

“When I Apparate,” Newt informed. “That feeling will lessen in time, once you’ve experienced Apparition more. There is an adjustment period.” Credence was silent for a moment, and Newt felt he needed to fill the emptiness of the room. “You were born with your mark, but I didn’t get mine until I was six. I still remember everything about that day.”

“You know my birthday?” Credence asked suddenly and Newt briefly made eye contact, confused by his tone.

“Do you not?”

“Ma didn’t believe in celebrating those sorts of things.” Credence’s hands dropped from Newt’s mark, clasping in his lap. “And, I was young when she found me, too young to remember the date myself. I don’t actually even know how old I am—”

“You’re twenty-three,” Newt insisted, “and your birthday is September thirtieth.” 

Credence had the deepest hunch that Newt probably celebrated it, too. His breath hitched and warm tears spilled down his cheeks with renewed force. He hid his head, wiping his eyes on the back of his marked hand then holding the brilliant salt-soaked pattern to his lips. He swayed forward with a shaky breath and he saw Newt’s arms bracketing him on either side, hovering.

“Credence, may I…?” Newt wanted to hold him, felt the need of it eating away in his chest. 

Credence held his mark inches from his face, enough to see it, and counted his breaths to calm himself. His devil was here, finally in front of him, and all those touches over the years had been real and wanted. Newt didn’t begrudge him for the suffering and here he was, arms outstretched. How many nights had Credence wished his devil could really embrace him? 

He had felt the touch of Mr. Graves’ strong hands holding firmly on his neck, his shoulder, his back, and it had honestly been revolting. Part of Credence feared that any direct contact would feel similar, that his skin had been conditioned to reject stimulus after years of abuse.

But, then, Mr. Graves had never asked to touch him, and Newt had yet to lay a hand on him without explicit approval. For that, Credence thought, his devil deserved at least a small reward, and really, what could one hug hurt?

He didn’t lift his head but slumped into Newt’s chest. The other man guided him, holding his forehead to the shoulder-mark. Deceptively muscular arms encircled Credence’s back and held him tightly. A wave of relief flooded his senses and he sighed into Newt’s neck, crying freely into his shirt. There was no pain or revulsion, only the gentle reassurance that was as familiar to Credence as breathing—except amplified by direct contact. The feeling was filling and warming and Credence shamefully wiggled closer, searching for more of the sensation until he was practically in Newt’s lap.

Newt had no complaints, though, and peppered the top of his head with kisses, rubbing his hands down his soulmate’s back. He felt the bony prominence of his spine, counting each vertebra with reverence, and Credence shivered against him.

Having the phantom feel of hands on him was incredibly different than the real thing, and Credence was becoming drunk off it, panting as though they were already skipping straight to the bedroom—and sweet Lord, what would that feel like if it came to it?

Newt shifted, sitting with his legs crossed and maneuvering until Credence—was—seated in his lap, blushing and fumbling to get his arms around Newt’s shoulders. Newt nuzzled his cheek against Credence’s and rested his chin to his shoulder, taking as much comfort from the embrace as Credence, if the contented feeling tracing through their feedback was any indication.

Maybe they wouldn’t be starting from square one.


	9. Protected

The kettle chilled, abandoned on the stove. On the other side of the door, in the habitats, the nocturnal creatures were reaching a crescendo as their artificial nighttime approached its peak. Though Newt could set time to the cries, the sounds meant little to Credence and the passage of time was marked instead by an indirect numbness creeping into his legs, no doubt a result of the position Newt was sitting in. Credence shifted and Newt clung to him, worrying his head into his neck and sleepily begging, “Please, love, not yet.”

“Your legs are asleep,” Credence said simply.

“It isn’t a bother,” Newt argued hurriedly. He felt sure that the younger man’s tolerance was running thin, that the sudden propulsion into the unknown was too much. Newt feared that when they parted, they would never connect again, that Credence’s upbringing would prevail and push them apart. Newt could understand how Credence, having been raised in such a staunch environment, would be reluctant to flow with the idea of soulmates and magic and love that knew no boundaries, but that didn’t make the idea of rejection hurt any less. 

Though his legs were stinging numb, Newt didn’t want to let go. He could feel a tired haze inching into his periphery, signaling that fatigue was looming over his soulmate, threatening to overtake him. Newt mentally scolded himself for his selfishness. Credence had been to hell and back, lost everything he knew in a single night, and now he was being held, possibly against his will, by a man he didn’t even know. 

Newt reluctantly nodded in compliance and removed his arms from Credence’s back. Credence crawled out of Newt’s lap and helped the older wizard stand despite the static running through his calves. He swayed blearily and Newt caught him by the shoulders to stabilize him.

“Sorry, I’m sure you’re exhausted,” Newt said. “Come on, then, let’s get you to bed. We can sort things out in the morning.”

“To bed?” Credence echoed in disbelief.

“I have a little cot.” Newt gestured to an oddly shaped doorway to the side of the ladder. “It’s not much but it is comfortable.”

“I can’t,” Credence rebutted. “I can sleep…” His eyes wandered meaningfully to the sofa. “…there. Not your… I can’t take your bed from you.”

Newt held back a frown. He had dared to hope that he and Credence might sleep in the same place, though the thought obviously hadn’t crossed his soulmate’s mind. Newt had to remind himself again that even being allowed to embrace the younger wizard was an amazing feat, that if they were to become close he’d have to take it slowly. 

“Right,” Newt hummed, “that’s fine. I’ll bring you a blanket.”

\-----

Newt brought the article and retreated to the room where his bed was. He left the door cracked and a warm light spilled from the slit. Credence waited until the light flicked out before he sat onto the sofa cushion, removed his shoes, dropped his jacket to the floor, and crawled under the blanket.

Credence struggled a moment to get comfortable, eventually settling on his back with his knees drawn up so his feet wouldn’t hang off the arm of the sofa. He nestled beneath the blanket, noting the coarse texture of it—it seemed to be woven by hand, the chunky fibers of it imperfect but durable, and it boasted a brightly colored pattern. It smelled of hay and earth and vaguely of animal fur. Credence recalled subconsciously that Newt had the same sort of scent about him and he snuggled against the blanket, consoled by the similarity. The rough fabric scratched at his skin as he drew it to his chin and Credence was blindsided by a cathartic feeling of déjà vu—this was a blanket that Newt had slept under, after all, so it was incredibly familiar.

The beasts were noisy and Credence noticed them for the first time when a loud buzzing sliced through the air. It reminded him of cicadas, the loud little bugs that emerged in droves every decade or so. The sound was hypnotizing and accented by a quartet of croaks, purrs, chirps, and occasional distant roars. Credence wondered if each sound was a distinct animal, if he’d have the opportunity to see them all, if Newt would show him…

He caught himself smiling, his fingers twitching unconsciously on his stomach, and he froze immediately. He hoped that Newt had fallen asleep, that he hadn’t felt the tap of Credence’s fingers. However, the next moment, he felt a fingertip tracing a circle over his ribs, a phantom gesture from the man in the other room. There was a hesitance but the other fingers joined, cradling the curve of his ribs while the palm pressed securely at the pit of his stomach.

The sensation pushed Credence out of reality, his mind just foggy enough with sleep that he could imagine himself in his bed at the church. It was like any other night, nestled under a blanket and alone—and had it been any other night, he knew what action followed. 

Credence’s hand, his good one, rested on his hip, fingers tapping the bony jut. The whirring of the insects outside began to sound more like the hum of a dying street light. The miscellaneous sounds could be confused with the wind howling into his open window. The warmth of his devil’s hand anchored at his center and he deliriously wondered if he had dreamed it all—if, when his Ma had gone for Modesty, he had actually closed his mind off and was just now waking.

His skin felt tight, like the blackness inside him was trying to tear its way out, and his head filled with a sound like rushing water and wailing. His devil’s hand pressed more insistently, worriedly. Credence unconsciously slipped his hand down his thigh, gliding his fingers inward and shivering at the brush of contact. He inhaled sharply, dragging his ruined hand up to stifle a gasp with the back of his hand and—

He jolted at the healed smoothness against his lips and held his hand up enough to see—

His mark. It was there, renewed, and the room suddenly came crashing back into focus. 

He was not in his bed, no. He was in the center of the small workshop, surrounded by the scattered wreckage that his magic had left—chaos that he would feel obligated to help right once he’d rested. The sounds of the beasts outside beat out the white noise in his brain, yanking him back to the present. He stared at his mark, felt his right hand fearfully gripping his thigh. Credence jerked his offending hand away, feeling the heaviness of shame digging into his gut. 

At the same time, a gentle caress petted over his navel, not chastising for his lapse. Credence couldn’t stand the tenderness of it, couldn’t stand that he’d thought of Newt as a faceless devil again. 

Though he knew the workshop was pleasantly warm, he felt a bitter chill creeping through him. Though he knew Newt was close, he wasn’t nearly close enough to satisfy the urgent need. Credence recalled, kicking himself for being so naïve, that Newt hadn’t offered his bed—instead of—the sofa. He’d tried to pull him somewhere closer, safer. He’d tried to invite him in.

Credence peered over the back of the sofa to the still-dark doorway. Quietly, he rolled to the floor and crept nearer, narrowly avoiding tripping on the scattered contents of an overturned shelf. He pushed the door open just a fraction, flinching when its hinges cried out. If Newt heard—and he most certainly had—he made no movement and no sound, so Credence shuffled into the room. A dim light cast into the room from the workshop and Credence could barely make out a small bed tucked into a corner against the wall. Newt’s back was to the door and Credence could still feel the warmth of his hand at his center.

Credence slinked up to the bed, kneeling beside it. “Newt?”

A few breaths passed and it felt like an eternity before he replied, “I’m awake.”

“I’m sorry,” Credence whispered. “I don’t know what anything means anymore. None of this seems real.” He pawed at his shoulder—Newt’s marked one—and the other man exhaled shakily. “You really can feel it, can’t you?”

“You feel it, too,” Newt said softly, knowingly, as he kissed the back of his left hand. He shifted, turning over to face the younger man. There was a lovestruck look on his face—or at least Newt hoped he was reading it correctly as such. “Credence, would it bother you terribly if I wanted to sleep together with you?”

Credence considered the question carefully, thinking on it long enough that Newt began to worry. Finally, he said, “No. I think… I think that’s what I want, too.” Newt excitedly shuffled backward and patted the mattress. Credence quickly said, “But, not by the door.”

“Oh,” Newt hummed, not questioning the obvious defense mechanism. “That’s quite all right. Behind me then, by the wall? If that would make you more comfortable.”

Credence didn’t wait for further permission and he climbed in, albeit awkwardly, over Newt and plopped between the older man and the wall. Newt tugged his blanket from under Credence and tossed it over the both of them, then pushed his pillow over, giving up the majority of it. Credence settled in, his heart fluttering anxiously as Newt laid beside him.

“Are you going to touch me?” Credence asked suddenly.

“Would you like me to?” Newt countered.

Credence said, “Just... the holding part.” He thought it had felt nice, being held on the floor earlier, at least until Newt’s legs had gone numb. Newt brushed his hand up, fingering through Credence’s sharp-cut bangs. Credence relaxed into the touch but was still focused on the low light at the door. Though he did want the contact—desperately so—he felt as though judging eyes were upon him, as though his Ma would be at the door any moment to catch him in his sin.

“What’s wrong?” Newt asked softly.

“The door,” Credence said. “Could you close it?” 

Newt nodded and flicked his hand toward the door, swinging it shut with a wordless spell. Darkness permeated the room and with it, Credence pressed his hands to Newt’s chest, fisting the well-worn material of his shirt. His frame shuddered and Newt gripped his shoulder reassuringly.

“I’ll put a light on—”

“No,” Credence said forcefully. A fearful part of his mind was working overtime to convince him that something was waiting in the darkness, waiting to swallow him. A light would only reveal whatever demon that might be lurking. 

He felt winded as Newt’s arms engulfed him, drawing him in. “Credence, it’s all right.”

“There’s nothing bad living in here, is there?” It was childish, carrying on in such a way, but Credence was sure that Newt kept a close tally on the occupants of the case.

Newt squeezed him tightly. “Nothing bad and nothing dangerous. There’s absolutely nothing to worry about.” He nuzzled to the top of Credence’s head and his hair had an admittedly dusty smell. Newt felt sure that once he had recuperated, Credence would want to bathe. For the moment, he seemed content, however, and Newt cuddled him close. “From now on, I’ll protect you, love. I won’t let anything or anyone harm you again.”

Credence clung shamelessly to him, cinching his arms around the dip of Newt’s waist. Newt gasped quietly, shuffling and situating until they were pressed soundly together, legs twined. He drew his left hand up to stroke the short-sheared undercut and then higher into his soulmate’s dark hair, twinging at the foreign feeling of his fingers uncurling. 

Unfortunately, Credence’s fingers had been broken all those years ago, and mended incorrectly. He’d need to have the bones reset, a task that Newt couldn’t readily accomplish with his rudimentary skill in healing. Had it been a straight bone, like an arm, maybe he could have managed it, but factoring in the intricate mechanics of joints, Newt thought it would be best to leave it to a proper healer. 

Getting him to a healer would be a bit difficult, though.

“Credence, you will go with me, won’t you?” Newt asked, his breath warming the top of Credence’s head. 

“Go where?” he asked, shivering at the sensation.

“To London, for starters,” Newt promised. “I had hoped to take you to a healer to finish up fixing your hand. It would be easier outside of the States.”

“Fix it?” Credence gasped. “It can be fixed, actually fixed?”

“Of course,” Newt soothed. “I wouldn’t trust myself to set jointed bones properly, but it would be no trouble for an experienced healer.”

“I’ll go,” Credence said hurriedly. 

Newt smoothed his fingers down the nape of his neck. “There are so many things I want to show you. After London… well, after that, we’ll go wherever you’d like.”

“I’ve never been outside of the city before,” Credence admitted. “I’ve never thought of going anywhere else.”

“Then, we’ll make a game of it,” Newt said excitedly. “Throw a dart at a map and go where it lands, or something of the like.” Credence was silent and Newt read it as a lack of enthusiasm (though really, he was simply overwhelmed by the idea that he was being offered the literal world). Newt quickly redacted, “Or—or, I have a cottage. It’s isolated, away from the city. We could always settle in there until you get your bearings.” His heart raced and Credence could feel his throat tighten sympathetically. “Or, if you’d rather wait until after the healer to make your choice… If you wish to go your own way, I won’t hold you against your will.”

Taken aback, Credence leaned away from the other man, making out the fuzzy features of his face as his eyes adjusted to the dark. He couldn’t honestly be saying…?

“You think I want to get away from you?” Credence whispered.

Newt seemed withdrawn, muted, and he miserably said, “I tend to annoy people. All I’m saying is that if I begin to wear on you, if you would rather be elsewhere, I’ll understa—”

“You—saved me,” Credence stammered. “Even though I’ve killed people—you know I’ve killed people, don’t you?” A sudden streak of cold fear assaulted him—that maybe Newt didn’t know.

“You cannot be blamed for things your Obscurus has done,” Newt hushed. “You’re not in control of it.”

“I was for—” Credence thought of his Ma, of how angry he was that she’d threatened the belt on Modesty. Even now, his magic churned in his chest, and Newt, feeling it, too, stroked his back carefully. “My Ma, I killed her, and I meant it.” Then, pitifully he added, “And Chastity, even though I didn’t—I wouldn’t ‘ve. Not her. But I did anyway.”

“Credence—”

“And Modesty’s still out there,” he interrupted. “I scared her and she ran, but Mr. Graves thought she was the one—the one with magic. She can’t go back home, but she—she’ll die out there. The street children think she’s strange. She won’t—they won’t…” He didn’t realize he’d started crying until he licked his lips to wet them and tasted bitter salt.

“Credence, listen to me,” Newt soothed. “Everything is going to be okay.”

“I don’t want to leave here,” he whimpered, “not even to go find her. I’m selfish and horrible and you think—you think I’ll be annoyed by you, that I’ll want to leave? I’ll be lucky if you want me around that long. I was lucky Ma kept me—”

“Absolutely not,” Newt said sternly. The swirling in Credence’s chest seized up at the authoritative tone, but Newt actions were conflicting. He petted, soothed, and cupped Credence’s tear-soaked cheek. “I’ll accept none of that. Not wanting to go back out there, it’s not selfish. Neither is wanting the hurt to stop. It’s not safe for you to go out, anyway.” Newt pulled him close again, dampening his shirt against Credence’s cheek. “Modesty… is that…?”

Credence nodded and managed to say, “She’s my sister.” 

“She’ll be okay. I’ll have Tina and Queenie look for her tomorrow. I don’t know much in the way of Muggle children’s services in America, but I’m sure Tina can think of something.”

“Muggle…” Credence repeated. “A non-magical person?”

“That’s right,” Newt said.

Credence rambled. “But she has a mark—had a mark—and she has a…” He refrained from saying ‘a devil’ and instead left the statement hanging.

“She has a mark?” Newt gasped. 

“Yes,” Credence answered. “That means she’s a witch, doesn’t it?”

“Most likely,” Newt said brightly. “It’s not unheard of for wizards and witches to become tied to Muggles, but the enchantment is a bit tricky in those cases. Muggles don’t develop marks from birth or at the time of their soulmate’s birth. Their marks manifest after they’ve met their soulmate.” 

It was the first time Newt had said ‘soulmate’ aloud and hearing the word set Credence’s heart to a thunderous pace. 

“It’s very unlikely that she would have already met hers,” Newt continued. “As I’ve said, it’s quite difficult to find one another in the first place.”

“She’s not… well, I’ve never seen any sort of magic from her.”

“Is she very young?” Newt asked. 

“She’s eight.”

“Ah, that could be it, then. Magical inclinations sometimes won’t show until age ten or eleven. She has time. But, Credence, this means she’ll be fine. If she’s a witch, then it could certainly be arranged for her to be taken in by a magical family.”

“She could learn magic?” he asked hopefully.

“She could,” Newt assured. “There are schools for it, you know.”

“Schools for magic?” Credence felt the blackness within settling, knowing that Modesty would be taken care of. He wondered if he’d be allowed to see her again before leaving the city with Newt, or if he’d have to remain hidden. He wilted into Newt’s chest and relaxed into an embrace. “What’s it like?”

“School is school, I suppose,” Newt hummed. “After the first few years, when the awe and wonder of it has worn off, it’s a little dull, honestly. But, in the beginning, it’s so grand and unknown.” He rubbed circles at the small of Credence’s back, feeling their shared anxiety ebb and fade into lazy contentment. “I attended a school called Hogwarts.”

“That where you broke it... your arm?” Credence asked hazily. 

“I fell from a broom,” Newt answered. “I’m terribly sorry about that, by the way. I’ve never quite forgiven myself for putting you through that.”

“S’okay, I’ve hurt you… lot more.”

Credence drifted deeper, nuzzling weakly at Newt’s throat. Newt wiggled against him, slotting himself until he was pressed as closely and fully as possible. “You’re worth the pain, I assure you. I never could have imagined that holding you would feel this perfect. You're perfect, Credence.”

“M’not.”

“You are,” Newt insisted. 

Once his soulmate’s breathing deepened and evened, Newt was close to follow into sleep.


End file.
